I want to hold your hand
by Prussium
Summary: Arthur is convinced that he doesn't need any company other than his dog. Alfred is looking for friends who actually care. As their paths cross after an accident, they attempt forming an unlikely friendship. And they are about to find out if there's something even more. USUK AU.
1. Chapter 1

**I want to hold your hand**

I can feel my heart leaping out of my throat as I chase after my dog. Running at his full speed, he ignores my commands to calm the fuck down while I get his toy that's bouncing off the road.

"Baxter!" I try again, and catch my breath. The golden retriever bolts away. "Baxter, leave it!"

I make a mental note on paying closer attention to his leash next time we go walking, but the next moment I find myself screaming and taking flight as a swerving Lexus hits Baxter and knocks him flat on the pavement.

Blood pounds in my ears as the world moves in slow motion, only falling back to its pace when a tall, wide-eyed, blond boy in a university hoodie – the idiot driver – scampers out of the blasted car. "Ohmygodisheokay?" he asks.

Probably not because you hit him, you idiot.

Seeing the looming stranger, Baxter panics in his place. He makes an attempt to flee and fails as he's unable to move his legs.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" The driver looks at me as he cautiously crouches next to my pet. His desperate, blue eyes make him look like he's about to cry. He asks me, "Are you okay?"

No. No, I'm not, thanks to twats like you who mustn't be allowed a driver's license.

I want to tell him but the thing is, I can't speak. Queasiness has glued my lips together. I'm sweating and shaking profusely, torn between giving in the instinct to kill someone and passing out on the ground beside Baxter.

"Aw, you poor thing!" The driver tells my injured pet as though he is still incapable to wrap his head around the fact that his carelessness has brought him agony. He turns to me. "We need to take him to the vet ASAP – will you do me a favour?"

Hastily, he takes off his shoelaces and asks me to hold Baxter while he muzzles him. Hearing his pained whimpers is torture, but the driver says this is the best way to prevent further injuries until the doctors can take a look at him. He volunteers his hoodie as a stretcher, and with utmost care, we both transfer Baxter to the back of his car.

On the short drive, he attempts getting friendly with me. He throws me apologies nonstop, and I keep telling him to say that to Baxter who hasn't stopped whimpering at the back. He says his name is Alfred and he lives around the neighbourhood. He asks me what's my name, do I live around the area, why did Baxter run off, and am I okay?

"You're trembling," he points out like I'm unaware of it. With the worried look on his face, I think he plans dropping me off to the emergency room as well.

"Just drive," I tell him.

I'm not sure what to do with my hands as I try my best restraining them from wringing his neck. For once, my constant self-destructive schemes miraculously take a backseat in my head. I want to tell him he seems like an expert in this and ask, _Do you hit runaway dogs in your neighbourhood quite often?_ But my mouth is still incapable of conversations so I just stare at the blur of houses by the window and bite my nails.

I take Baxter out for long walks every weekend. These are the best times to contemplate on life and existence and other shit without anyone breathing down my neck. I leave my car outside my flat and we walk for a couple of miles, strolling along a different neighbourhood every time. Only today, due to some unfortunate circumstances, we end up at the pet hospital with a despicable stranger (an American, no less) named Alfred.

As Baxter undergoes a series of blood tests and x-rays, Alfred stays with me in the waiting area. He finally gets my I-really-don't-want-to-talk-to-you hints and now we sit apart with a comfortable distance and an awkward silence.

I pretend being busy by scrolling through my phone. He does the same, tapping idly on his screen. We're trapped in this charade for ages, only interrupted when someone hesitantly sits between us. I feel his eyes on me at times. When I return his glance, he gets busy with his phone again.

The harrowing wait is over as the doctor calls me to explain the diagnosis. Baxter's got some broken bones, but no spinal damage or any other fatal injuries. Thank God.

"I'm glad he's okay," Alfred huffs with relief, pushing his glasses against the bridge of his nose. He looks genuinely happy as if a relative's life has been declared out of danger.

I nod.

It's his turn to speak, but instead, he buries his hands on his jeans pockets, suddenly taking interest on the tiled floor.

"Hey," I tell him. It still feels strange talking to him. Breathe in. Breathe out. "I'm sorry if I acted like a prick or a nervous wreck today, but er, Baxter's the only company I have since I fled my mother's house, and er... I can't afford to lose him."

He smiles at that and runs a hand at the back of his head. "It's alright. I understand." He shrugs. "I think I would've acted the same if it happened to my dog."

Like a normal well-mannered human being, I thank him for taking the responsibility of driving us here and even staying with me. That's about it. He offers driving us home, but I reckon that's asking too much from him so I insist taking a cab.

"Bye, Arthur." He waves his hand in a constricted sweep.

"Bye, Alfred."

I close the cab door.

I hope our paths will never have to cross again.

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <strong>

Happy New Year, everyone! Whoa I haven't posted anything in ages.

How does this sound for a first chapter? This is for wolfofthemoon101 on Tumblr who gave me this amazing idea of an 'I accidentally ran over your pet and now I'll take you both to the vet' AU. It's gotten wayyy longer than I intended so I'm chopping it off to little chapters. Updates won't take long as I've finished more than the first half. uvu


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, I figure I can use a happy dose of family.

My cousins Gilbert and Ludwig live closer to me than any of my parents or stepbrothers do, and they're happy to have me at their place anytime. We practically grew up together, Gilbert and Ludwig. Their family have moved from Germany and the three of us went to the same schools since Year 3. Later on Gilbert and I transferred to the same city as we started attending uni.

Ludwig opens the door. He's in his first year, majoring in Economics because he's clever like that. He spends his free time reading the strangest instruction books like _Dating For Germans _and_ How To Smile Naturally,_ and playing with their dogs Aster, Blackie, and Berlitz.

"Hey," I say, the word coming out in a cloud of mist.

"Hey, Arthur. Come in," he replies. He doesn't really say much – a total opposite of his older brother. He points at the dining room where Gilbert is squinting at some papers and sitting with someone he's tutoring. Gilbert's in third year like me. He does study groups sometimes, taking first year Mechanical Engineering kids under his wing. Making legacies, as he says.

Here slumps a distressed (or is he bored?) blond kid on a plain white shirt. From my far angle, he looks fit with his well-toned arms. Not that I'm checking him out or anything.

"Jesus, you have to make your writing more legible," complains Gilbert.

"Oh, wait a sec, let me just get rid of my dyslexia," the kid replies.

Gilbert opens his mouth for a witty comeback (I know him, he will), when I make myself visible.

"Hey, A!" He springs from his chair to give me a cousin hug. "Fancy seeing you here! What brings you to our humble abode?"

The blond turns his head to see their unexpected visitor and at that very moment, my mouth responds by itself.

"Bloody hell."

"Oh my god."

The blond kid's shock brings back Baxter's grim accident yesterday. Wide, blue eyes stare at me unblinking.

What are the odds? This can't be happening, surely? Slap me in the face.

"You know each other?" asks Gilbert, pointing to me and Alfred.

I wish I don't.

I start sweating again. My heart is beating twice as fast. I feel nauseous.

"H-He ran over Baxter yesterday," I prompt.

Now Gilbert and Ludwig are outraged; their mouths hang open.

"How could you do that?" asks Ludwig, the biggest animal welfare advocate of our family.

At some point, I'm pleased that someone shares my sentiment of wanting to strangle Alfred, a validation that it's a reasonable act, but upon seeing Alfred stare down at the table, carrying guilt, shame, and the verdict of his crime on his shoulder, I immediately feel regret.

Isn't it enough to make him feel bad about himself yesterday? Do I still have to rub it in his face?

I'm such a horrible person.

I manage to make Gilbert and Ludwig calmly take their seats and explain what happened: Baxter ran off, I was unable to catch him, Alfred accidentally ran over him, and Alfred drove us to the vet and stayed with me until Baxter could go home. Bottom line: accidents happen; I must take extra care of my pet especially when outdoors, and Baxter's alive and well with only minor injuries.

Everything's crystal-clear by the time the doorbell rings. Antonio and Francis step in with three bottles of whisky. I've known these two since Year 4. They're actually Gilbert's friends, but they tagged me along because I was such a sore loser and I didn't have my own group of friends.

By the end of sixth form, they decided to move in the same city and officially become ultimate BFFs. Or BTT, as they are well-known for, which stands for Bad Touch Trio. Don't ask me what it means. Francis is in my course, Architecture. French bastard keeps copying me ever since we've known each other, though he insists that _I_ copy him. Antonio is in Music Production. He's also our ticket to the coolest gigs and music festivals in the country.

Francis waltzes across the room and dramatically flips his long, wavy hair. His eyes shimmer upon setting on Alfred. Slipping an arm over his broad shoulders he asks, "Who's our new friend right here?"

You see, Francis is easily the gayest Frenchman you'll ever meet. I won't even attempt describing him – you'll know what I mean when you see him. You can't help but think he's a big flirt when he's around, but underneath that ridiculously soft hair and perpetual beard, he's actually a nice person (which I never admit out loud because he'll think I'm interested in him).

Alfred is blushing and shrinking underneath his touch.

"That's Alfred," says Gilbert. "Alfred, Francis and Antonio. Francis and Antonio, Alfred. And er, you two know each other already."

Gilbert's study groups are never complete without booze. I've been here enough times to know. It's another way for him to acquire more drinking buddies.

On warmer days, we drive to the beach and sit around a bonfire. The living room will do for now. The six of us assemble on the sofa and the carpeted floor, whisky and coke circulating while pondering about their favourite topic: love.

Antonio feeds us the latest update with his elusive love, Lovino. He's quite jealous at Ludwig as it's going well between him and Lovino's brother, Feliciano. Francis chimes in and suggests him to pour all his feelings into music and turn them into an art form. He slurs a quote from _Moulin Rouge_, something about loving and being loved in return (he's basically the love expert, maybe it has something to do with being French). And then Gilbert mutters his problems with his not-so-girlfriend Elizaveta. The three of them huddle closer to form their own lovelorn circle. Ludwig stands to retrieve some beer from the fridge.

I stay silent during the entire conversation. I'm contented drinking and slipping out a couple of smokes from Gilbert's packet, my back on the base of the couch. It's so much easier to remain invisible – I don't have to excruciate my poor brain for an amusing tale or a funny joke.

The bottle of whisky is passed to me.

"You're so quiet," says Alfred. He hasn't said anything after Gilbert, Antonio, and Francis huddled together either.

I clutch the bottle and refill my glass. "What's there to talk about?"

Harsh response, I know. My words make me flinch sometimes, too. But I mean, how can people even find me interesting enough to start a conversation? My pet's fur has more personality than me, and I don't really talk for the sake of talking. Truth be told, I feel sorry for everyone who has ever tried. They all land on the state of disappointed in the end. I can feel their brain cells die a slow and painful death whilst the conversation goes on. I'm actually doing them a favour by shutting up. Staying in my best behaviour, I won't hurt their feelings.

But in the most unlikely circumstance that I'll ever attempt making friends, it'll go like this:

_Me: Hello. I hate myself and I want to destroy the world. _

_Person: Cool. Me too!_

_Me: Oh really? Want to be my friend? _

_Person: Yeah! _

And we'll disappear from the face of the earth as we plot its demise.

I stay for a while and wait to be sober. Antonio and Francis are sleeping over – they've drunk themselves into oblivion for the night, sprawled in such interesting positions on the floor. I get up and bid everyone goodbye – drive safely, says Gilbert and Ludwig. They're constantly bothered with my drinking problems, so I tell them I will. Alfred follows my lead and gets into his car that's parked across mine.

My shitty car won't start. I try again. It coughs weakly and the engine dies. I try for the third time. _Come on, shitty car. Come on, you can do it!_ It just won't start.

A knock on the window saves me from slamming my head on the steering wheel.

"Hey, do you need a ride?" Alfred asks.

I leave my shitty car where it's parked and have Gilbert tinker with it tomorrow to see if there's still hope before I give it up for good. Meanwhile, I find myself in the passenger's seat of Alfred's Lexus for the second time. Some chart music's filling the silence, but I have my earphones on as well. I can't resist this latest album I've leaked from the internet.

"You're so quiet. What are you thinking about?" says Alfred as he takes a left turn.

What kind of a bloody question is that? I take my time thinking about an appropriate response. First of all, I don't like talking about myself let alone my thoughts and feelings. And second, can't he see I'm listening to my music? Some people just can't get a clue.

"You really can't stand silence, can you?"

"Ooh, sassy," he says like some straight white girl. "But no, really. How's Baxter?"

Talking about yesterday still upsets me, but it seems like the safest ground for conversation.

"He's doing well, thank you. Just a bit stressed," I answer. I fiddle with my earphones to occupy my hands. "You said you have a dog too."

His smile gleams through the blue darkness of the car. "I do. Her name's Mallows," he says. "She's a Sammie."

"Promise me you'll never run over her. Assuming you haven't yet."

"Oh no, I'll never do that."

"Good. How old is she?"

So begin the chronicles of Mallows' epic existence. I ask one question and I get a full-length biography of Alfred's pet from the time of her adoption. I start feeling at ease as Alfred muses like a proud daddy talking about the growth of his first baby. I imagine him cooing at her as a wee puppy while holding her in his arms. I laugh and nod in agreement as we find our pets sharing the same quirks and behaviours. I can feel warmth reach the cold and dark corners inside me.

An abrupt silence erupts. I tap my palms on my lap in sync with drumbeats.

Alfred asks, "I'm wondering... is there a chance that we can be friends?"

I can't believe he still wants to be friends after how I've acted around him all this time. Still, I say, "Do you want to know the truth?"

He nods.

"If we didn't meet that way, we're probably good friends by now."

He chuckles. "What a shame."

I smile and say, "But you're not so bad at all."

It makes him smile as well. Before he gets cheeky or anything, I tell him to drop me off at this street, which is three blocks away from my flat. We say goodbye and good night.

Baxter is waiting by the door like he always does. He tries jumping on me with his imperishable energy, only he falls back and wails to his bandaged legs. I pat his head and say he'll get better. I know he understands as he eagerly follows me to the kitchen while I prepare his food.

I become aware of an earworm that manage to slip through our wordless companionship as I catch myself humming the tune I was listening to earlier, and there's no getting rid of it until I listen to it again. I fumble through my bag, but my iPod isn't there. I must've left it in Alfred's car when I stopped listening and started talking to him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

A little later, my phone chimes.

_"hey its alfred u left ur ipod in my car"_

"_I did. How did you get my number?"_

"_gil gave it to me"_

I don't say anything else. He follows up: "_i scanned through your playlist and i wonder if i can listen to your stuff im interested"_

"_Go ahead. Educate yourself with good music while you're at it. The songs you play in your car are pretty shit."_

"_thx :))"_

* * *

><p>Monday mornings are the worst. The weight in my head is never gone, but it's atrociously heavier at this time of the week. It's not hangover from last night – I've learned not to get ill easily as my alcohol tolerance increase through the years. Hardly getting any sleep only adds up to the problem. I'm lucky enough to get some rest at around midnight and wake up before dawn. Most days I start with bloodshot eyes like I smoke pot in my sleep.<p>

Baxter leaps on my bed one minute before my alarm goes off. He literally saves me every day from staring at the ceiling for hours and thinking about how I can deal with life. He greets me with a renewed spirit, sticking his tongue out and demanding a hug.

"Who's a good boy, huh? Who's a good boy?"

He barks what I assume as laughter. He likes it when people scratch the sides of his neck.

I'll probably be more miserable without him. Whenever I'm passed out on the couch from drinking, he'll drag some covers from the bedroom. Even if I'll still feel like total shit, I'll feel so much better. He has his methods of keeping me from my bed in weekdays. If he knows I need to leave for class, he'll lick my face until I prop up on my pillows. He never loses track of our morning routine. He'll instantly demand food and I'll make something for myself as well, and we go out for a short walk and play fetch if we have more time.

He'll hang around and wait until I come home. I don't have to tell him to behave whilst I work on my drawing table – he'll take his place on the floor by my feet.

Dogs are more convenient companions than people if you ask me. You'll hold their loyalty for the rest of their lives and they won't complain or moan about anything, let alone demand something improbable in return.

For today's brunch, I make myself some fried eggs and burnt toast (heh) with tea. My phone rings as I take the last bite. It's Alfred.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Arthur. Did I wake you up?"

"No, I'm about to go to class. What is it?"

"Uh, Gilbert's tagging me along to this gig on Thursday. I'm wondering if you're coming too? I figure I can give you back your iPod if you are."

I click my tongue. "Yeah, sure. See you on Thursday then."

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <strong>

Because I've received such good feedback on the first chapter, here's a quick update. Thanks for the favorites, follows, and reviews! Have a nice day!


	3. Chapter 3

My university life revolves around attending (or skipping) lectures, drafting plates, and going out for gigs. I constantly manage pulling a balancing act between getting decent marks and getting shitfaced without dying – which only almost happened once.

Francis and Antonio arrive about three minutes after me, immediately followed by Gilbert, Ludwig and Alfred. We stand in a queue with our winter overcoats and a dare to finish the night with our system alcohol-free. It's a lousy joke more than anything. Everyone knows no one will win, but they like the ideation of surviving a night without booze.

A bunch of people from my course walk by and say hi. I smile a little and say hello.

"Someone's pretty popular," says Alfred, leaning in that I can smell his mint breath. He reaches inside his pocket and hands me back my iPod. "Here you go. I like Rum Did It and Independent Punctuation Marks the most, though everything you have there is superbly incredible."

Gilbert chimes in. "He also thinks you have a nice face." This is succeeded by an _ouch!_ as Alfred stomps on his foot.

I blink. Does the eyeliner make the difference, or is it the dim lighting?

"How many drinks has he had already?" I lean in and ask Gilbert.

We get inside after standing in the cold for ages, which seem to have cemented the smile on Alfred's face. Nothing is new with our Thursday night, except for his presence. Each time is an excuse to get rowdy with the crowd (like jostling Francis, for example) and savour intimate moments with these bands before they become too mainstream and get claimed to be everyone's favourite. But tonight every move I make is restricted. I don't quite know what to do with myself. I feel like clawing all my hair over my face and straightening my wrinkled and tattered clothes. My friends notice my lack of participation in the riot because I usually initiate it. After some wild guitar solos and drumbeat intermissions, I'm back to my old gig self with more earworms to kill.

"We should do this again!"

It's 2 am. We are covered in sweat, surrounded with newfound party-friends. Hands on each other's shoulders, everyone boards the Drunk Train. We finish the night raising our nth glass in the air, like we do every single time.

* * *

><p>Gilbert has officially adopted Alfred as part of the gang, making him the only freshman to be granted pass to our weekly shenanigans. The next weekend comes and Alfred is the first one to show up. Truth be told, I dislike being alone with him as he's still an acquaintance more than a friend.<p>

"Where are they?" I ask. They're ten minutes later than their usual arrival time.

He shrugs. "They said they'll be coming in a few."

Gilbert and Ludwig are the least people to be late. The possibility of their being late is lower than the possibility of another ice age.

I try calling Francis and Antonio, but none of them are answering.

I text Gilbert.

_"Where the hell are you?" _

A minute passes, and I get a reply.

"_sorry there's been an emergency. ludwigs having a breakdown bc aster ate his notes and our rooms a disaster. im really gutted that we can't come. enjoy the gig with alfred.:)))" _

I call bullshit. I want to go on about how their dogs are more disciplined than themselves, but I decide to move on to the bigger problem. What am I supposed to do, left alone with _him_? I'm going to have my friends' heads.

I guess there's no turning back now. I feel bad leaving him alone, not to mention like a total loser. What must I tell him as an excuse? _Er, Alfred, my pet just texted me saying he pooed on my carpet. I need to go home and clean it up now, bye. _

So I stay.

He seems to enjoy every second of the gig. As the crowd goes a little wild, I fight the urge to shove anyone against anyone and forget that I'm miffed at my friends for abandoning me tonight. There comes a time when Alfred has to take my hand and pull me close to him, saving me from the wave of people falling in a domino effect. I yank my hand from him when I come back to my senses, and he looks hurt.

"I'm claustrophobic," I blurt out as I bounce away from his chest.

My cheeks feel like they're on fire. I avoid looking at him for the rest of the gig.

"Did you like it?" I ask him after the show.

I decide to try being nice to him and give myself the chance to make some friends. I've only told him hurtful things since we've known each other, which is unfair to him. Aside from the fact that he almost killed my pet, Alfred's actually a fairly nice person.

We agree to stay up all night together, pub-hopping for the next few hours, talking and laughing about nothing. Haziness clouds over our heads, prompting me to suggest we move on to McDonald's. I appreciate that he lets me slip a couple of fries from his box. Near dawn, we walk around the city park until our faces are numb from the cold.

I don't mind hanging out with him, really. I think the feeling's mutual as he calls me up the following days to chill. Silly boy cracks me up; he never runs out of hilarious anecdotes to rhapsodise. I think the best so far is when he 'gracefully' surfed down a staircase with an ironing board and the hospital trip afterwards. Soon enough, we're exchanging opinions on anything under the sun, leading us to talk about our varying interests, and later on trade our favourite reading materials. He lends me some of his comic books, and I let him borrow some of my novels.

"Now I get where your sarcasm comes from," he says, giving me a light nudge. Smiling ear to ear, he hands me the last and my most favourite fiction book that 'no one ever reads'.

First comes music, then books, and lastly films. I am making a cultured man out of Alfred. The following week, I invite him to our university's Film Festival. Together we catch a glimpse of a struggling artist's life after graduation; a queer teenager's complicated relationship with his single mother; and the drastic decline of a socialite's social status.

The theme of the last film we're seeing is tightly close to our hearts, involving an old man dealing with the recent loss of his dog.

"Are you crying?" Alfred asks, leaning in to behold the tears streaming down my face. Surprise overwhelms concern, the way I hear it, which pretty much points out how much of an arsehole he thinks I am.

I sniffle and wipe my tearstained cheeks. "I'm capable of emotions too, you know."

We take a detour from our festive night outs the next weekends. One night, he calls me to ask if I want to go up a hill and watch the sunrise. I have no idea where he fetches these random ideas and what makes me say yes, and though the two of us are the least likely pair to do such sappy thing on a freezing morning, I figure I can use a change of routine.

I have to give him credit for knowing the best spot. The sky is a wash-painted ceiling with its early celestial colours blurring into each other above us, a splash of lavender slowly melting into bright orange, accented by thin, white clouds. I inhale the distinct morning scent of woodland, of the wildflowers outliving the harsh season and carpeting the cold earth. I stand up and reach high as I can, seizing the day with my outstretched fingers. Alfred does the same beside me, his eyes closed and a smile lingering on his lips. I like to think he feels the way I do, the bliss of being reminded how mornings are meant to be beautiful and brimming with life.

I don't have to worry about talking because Alfred does the honour all the time. He is an open book. You can read the pages of his life in his words, ever so often in his face. He is as random as he can get, happily springing from one topic to another. He tells me how frequently he comes here after they've moved from Portland three years ago, finding his new safe haven in this English forest.

"We got her when we moved here," he says, jumping onto yet another subject. He runs his fingers over Mallows' snow white fur.

He wanted to see Baxter after I told him he was almost fully-recovered. I was already planning on bringing him along for our weekend walk, and so in return, I asked him to bring Mallows.

She turns out to be the bundle of sweetness Alfred has always assured me. Our friendship starts the moment she hears me call her name, wagging her tail excitably and rushing to my side to be petted. She flashes me the infamous 'Smiling Sammie' face. We're inseparable since then. Baxter gets a little jealous and sulks behind us like a neglected toddler, his eyes pleading and doleful at the same time. This breaks Alfred's heart into little pieces, so he takes him and gives him a hug.

"Have you always lived here?" Alfred asks me.

"No, I moved three years ago for uni. I'm actually from Brighton," I say.

"I see. Do you have siblings?"

"Stepbrothers, yeah."

"Do you get along?"

"We do now. Sort of. We used to be at each other's throats all the time, but we outgrew that phase," I half laugh, suddenly reminiscing our complicated relationship. "Nowadays, we only have wrestling matches in our dad's living room when we come by for Christmas."

He grins. "Sounds fun. I have a brother and he's pretty much my best friend." He muses into the expanse of ridgeline silhouettes meeting the sky. "I mean, yeah, I make a lot of friends, and I have groups of friends wherever I go, but once the good times are over it's so hard to find the keepers, you know?"

I nod.

"Most times it's just me, Mattie, and Mallows," he says, and baby-talks his pet. "She's really therapeutic. She knows how to make me feel better whenever I'm down. Aren't you a good girl?"

Mallows barks in agreement.

I can sympathise with him because it's been proven so many times that Baxter is the only one who can actually _live_ with rubbish that is me. But I bite my tongue because it will only attract the dark cloud constantly levitating above me, and once it does it's difficult to turn off the loud, detestable thoughts it brings.

And I don't want to ruin the perfectly lovely morning.

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <strong>

This will be the last quick update in the meantime, I'm afraid. I need to work on the rest of the story now. There's only 3 chapters left.


	4. Chapter 4

I am frustrated.

I love doing a few things to jump-start my day on a positive note. One of which is playing past time music on my second-hand piano, but my hands won't cooperate at the moment. I'm no Beethoven or Mozart. It just so happened that my Austrian neighbour wanted to get rid of his piano one day, and so I convinced him to sell it to me instead. I can play a couple of pieces from my lessons back in childhood. I've always found peace of mind in the light, soothing melodies even just for a while.

Despite getting almost disposed, the instrument is still in its tip-top condition. My fingers aren't, though. They fail keeping up with the rhythm, at times falling numb over the keys, making it impossible to press and play. They haven't always been like this, only since I've gotten a compression injury last summer.

There are times when I get into these horrendous moods that make me do _absurd_ things. Like last summer. I was furious about something that one time, though I had no memory about it except that it resulted to a terrible car crash. I woke up at a hospital covered in varying degrees of pain and confusion. I didn't realise how close I was to dying until my brothers interrogated me over the phone. A barrage of calls from Allistor in Edinburgh, Patrick in Belfast, and Dylan in Cardiff took ages to convince them I was okay. My statements pretty much translated as _yeah your stupid little brother fucked up again, but he's still alive, only a bit more miserable than ever_.

If anything, it was more like an overdue family reunion seeing my mum and dad in the same room. Of all the visiting hours and days, they decided to turn up at the same time! I found it hilarious because they figured they weren't well-matched and went on their separate ways when I was like ten. Fifteen minutes into their casual conversation they started having an argument, and I had to cut them off. I think I said something like, _Aww look at you two!_ _You should get back together in my funeral ha ha ha ha_. They didn't like my joke, but it shut them up. It was a challenge telling what rendered them speechless – the idea of my death or their getting back together.

It was too late to take back my lame joke as they began discussing what to do with me like I was still some sort of a problematic little child. I told them it wasn't an attempt, I swear, please don't lock me up, and don't I get a say to this? But they were having none of it. Sometimes when parents make choices, they leave permanent wounds to their children. We only came into a compromise once the authorities finished investigations. The officers said all evidences confirmed that it was an accident and my previous shitty car was to blame. We sealed our deal as the doctors prescribed higher dosage of antidepressants, along with many other pills. Also, I would see my therapist every week. I could live with that (pun not intended).

The doctors said that some of my injuries were severe and would take time to go back to normal. Now that I'm almost physically recovered, I want my stupid fingers to stop reminding me of a time I wish hasn't existed.

Anyway, my frustration is starting to grow into a monster and I need to vent it out before it swallows me. There's only one person in my mind.

"What do we do to make you feel better?" Alfred asks on the other line.

I only give him the idea that I'm upset, leaving the specifics unearthed. My mind draws a blank on his question. This is one of my personal issues – I can't express my emotions well. I bottle them up and put them in a fridge to drink later, you see, because I'm a poor excuse for a person.

"I have an idea," he says when I admit I don't know what to do.

His idea involves thick scarves and the frigid outdoors, and I wonder where he's going to take me this time. I can't risk driving with my fingers acting up, so I walk to the train station. Upon arriving at our meeting place, I see Alfred waiting outside his car, looking over his shoulder. He sees me approaching and gives me his broad smile.

"Hey," he says. "Whoa, you look nice."

I raise my eyebrows. There is nothing nice with my boring scarf and black pea coat. "Thanks. You look comfy," I tell him. Meanwhile, he's wearing a cosy cedar-coloured parka that makes his eyes look bluer. "Where are we going?"

He answers my question by hiking down the trail. We are walking up our hill, the colours of the sky floating above. The biting cold gives Alfred's face a faint shade of red. He looks even more childlike with thrill written all over it.

We stop at our sightseeing spot.

"What are we doing here?" I ask and catch my breath.

He smiles. "You're upset? Get it off your chest."

"I'm not sure about this, Alfred."

"Just do it. Shout whatever."

I shake my head.

"Okay, I'll start," he says, stepping forward. "I didn't have a nice week myself."

He is unusually jittery today. I notice how his hands are shaking. He's so restless, full of energies he can't contain any longer. And he wants to scream them all out.

"I WANNA SWING FROM A CHANDELIER!"

Echoes resonate through the open space before us. Then there's silence.

It doesn't last long as I break it with laughter. I laugh louder than I want to; my tummy hurts and it's not even that funny. Why is he so out of context? I guess Alfred Jones's randomness is beyond human logic. I join in. I shout my frustration and soon, the hills are alive with the sound of madness. It gets better – we start yelling unconventional cuss words and it turns into a competition.

"Chimney mouth!"

"Potshit!"

"Grapebutt!"

"Fridge fucker!"

We crash on the ground, laughing until we are out of breath and voice. I haven't done anything as satisfying in a long time.

"Where do you get these ideas?"

"Caffeine rush!"

I give him a blank look.

"You know, the glorious burst of feelings you get after drinking coffee."

"Yeah, I know that, twat. I just reckon uncaffeinated Alfred is a bit too much to handle already."

There goes the goofy grin. "I'm taking that as a compliment."

He tells me about his week. There's this guy in one of his classes who keeps challenging his ideas in discussions. It turns out that they can't stand each other's nerves since day one. But the one that gives more weight to the gravity of his unhappiness is the misunderstanding with his dad. He doesn't like people getting mad at him, his dad of all people. Looking back to their argument, he wishes he's less emotional and stubborn.

I have nothing to say other than 'I'm sorry', which is nothing comforting but I prefer it rather than 'that sucks, mate'.

"How about Gilbert?" I ask. "Is he treating you nicely?"

"Oh yeah. He's a great guy. He knows what's up and handles my tantrums like an expert."

I chuckle. "He dealt with a fair share of my tantrums growing up."

I remember Gilbert going out of his way just to make me smile after my parents broke up. I didn't talk to anyone for months, but he kept me company until I called off my silence. He never ran out of tricks under his sleeve, not to mention life advices. His words of wisdom would go from _Arthur calm down, no one's going to push you _to _you need to get laid. _I hope he's a little subtle to his lowerclassmen when it comes to _that_ matter.

"What do you do when you're upset?" Alfred looks up at me. "How do you deal with it?"

How do I deal with my feelings? I don't.

No, I actually have what I call Crying Schedule. I've long since taken note of my breakdowns and they always happen at night when I'm left alone to think about my fucked up life. It's almost like a calendar. I must make an app and have it on my phone and be like:

_Did you cry tonight? YES or NO_

_How many gallons of tears did you shed?_

But of course I can't breakdown in front of Alfred.

"I call up my mates and go out for a drink," I say.

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

He scrunches his eyebrows. "You know you're only making it worse, right?"

I smile bitterly. "People always think I'm such an angry person, but I'm not. I just have some issues dealing with my feelings because I can't express myself very well."

"That's why you need to take a step and deal with them. Run, shout, break down if you have to. You're only making it worse if you repress your feelings. They follow you everywhere and even if you run away, they'll come back one day and bite you," he says. "Promise me you'll try."

I take a moment and think about what I heard. See, no one has ever bothered telling me this. Then here comes someone, who I've only started being friends with, asking me to try doing better in life. I need alcohol.

"Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you fancy a drink?"

He never really says no to me. We head down the hill, guilt-free as we've emptied our chests of our burdensome week. I find comfort listening to Alfred talk while holding a cold glass of beer. He's more talkative than usual, musing about the cities he'd lived in because of his dad's job.

"We moved around quite a lot," he says.

"How long have you been moving?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I think we started when I was five. Dad kept busy with work after my mom left. He always found time for me and Mattie though."

"I see."

"Dad and I argue every now and then, but Mattie and I rarely do. I just can't agree with his ideations about Mom, Mattie. I mean I can't remember her that much and there's no point in trying to have her back when she's the one who left." He downs his glass.

When it comes to times like this, I can't do so much than lending an ear, but that's what I'm good at, I guess. And I think all Alfred needs right now is someone to listen.

Early evening, he gives me a ride home.

"Can I use the loo? I need a wee," he says as we reach the front door. He's marching in place.

"You _may_."

He shoots me this look that literally says _stop being a smartarse_.

Alfred and Baxter are happy to be reunited once more. I like their display of non-verbal affection – it's like seeing two pets communicate with each other. They're practically best friends now. Baxter confirms it by bringing his lion plush toy to Alfred, and I admit that I'm jealous because he only gives it to _me_. Alfred must have seen me pouting as he ruffles my hair. I point him to the bathroom.

I reluctantly give him the grand tour of my flat. It's one of those studio-types, so you can see everything at a glance. My flat is a mess. Realisation sinks in as I watch Alfred look around him. Baxter's squeaky toys are on the floor, bits and bobs pile up everywhere. I'm sure I'll be turning this place upside down when I happen to search for something. I try tidying up to feel positive and productive but I don't have the time. Who am I kidding? I just don't bother. My many attempts at self-care end up with supreme self-loathing. They say your room is a reflection of your mind. Well, isn't that the truth.

"It's a bit of a mess, sorry," I say.

"You should see my room. It looks like a Marvel dumpsite. This is a really nice place," he says. "Ooh, what's this?"

Alfred approaches my drawing table. An unfinished floor plan lays over it, which I have to finish by tonight. He asks about them, curious about the process. Everything I say draws out admiration. I can actually see stars shimmering in his eyes.

"Cool!" He steps closer to look at the posters and sketches of bands on the wall, attempting to identify some of them. His gaze darts to the little kitchen island, where another mountain of clutter waits. Picking up random items, he comments on Baxter's bag of food, saying he gives Mallows the same brand. The sight of my pill bottles stops him from talking.

My guests aren't supposed to see them on display, but then again most of the time it's just me and Baxter. I put my meds where I can easily see them because otherwise I'll forget. The next thing I know I'm jumping off the nearest cliff, and we don't want that to happen.

Alfred blushes a little. Neither of us is saying anything.

I turn the kettle on and reach for two mugs. "Would you like some tea?"

As far as I can remember he dislikes tea, but he says yes anyway. We sit on my bed, surrounded by an abundance of pillows. We say nothing while looking at each other's eyes from time to time, tapping our fingers against our mug. For a second I think it's only my imagination, but Alfred stares at the wall behind us and we hear a bed creaking, _thrusting_ against it.

"Deeper! Deeper! C'mon, Lego Boy, de-aah!" The succeeding pleas are in Norwegian.

A deep blush covers Alfred's face. My cheeks are burning as well, and I can't look at him.

"My neighbours," I tell the carpet. "Let's get out of here."

Outside, the moon is already visible. Alfred says he needs to go home.

"Thanks for today, Alfred. I really appreciate it."

He scratches the back of his head and smiles. "It's no problem."

We are looking at each other's eyes again. Then slowly, he leans forward, closing the distance between our lips. I scoot to the side and shake my head.

"I...I-I've got some drafting to do," I say. "Good night, Alfred."

He opens his mouth to say something, but the door closes.

I sink to the floor.

This is so Year 9 Arthur Kirkland, who won't even kiss a guy, who has zero tolerance for... for such things. I can't allow it to happen.

* * *

><p>I wake up at 3:47 am. My eyelids are burning; I've barely had two hours of rest. I can toss and turn until the sun comes out, but I won't manage to go back to sleep anymore. Impulse sends me to reach for my phone and go over my messages. Alfred has left one. I dial his number – it's supposed to be a missed call, but he answers.<p>

"Can't sleep?"

"No."

Neither of us remembers when this habit started, calling each other at any time of day for no reason, but we're okay about it.

"Alfred? Are you there? I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called."

"What? No no no, it's fine!" I can hear him smile on the other end. "Are you thinking of me?"

"You wish," I say. "Let's play a game."

"What kind of game?"

"It doesn't really have a name. We just ask each other questions. You don't have to answer, but always end with a question."

"Okay. So it's like Twenty Questions."

"Yes. Ready?"

"Yeah."

"No, Alfred. What's your question for me?"

"O-Oh, yeah. Of course. Okay..." A short pause. "Uh... Did you play this with your ex-girlfriends, boyfriends?" He says the last word tentatively.

"I don't have 'ex-boyfriends'. Why did you want to be friends with me?"

He takes a moment to answer. People do that when I go straight to the point. "...I think you're cool. And funny and clever."

"Wow you're terrible with compliments. What's your question?"

"Uh, aren't you from Brighton? How come you've never had a boyfriend?"

"That's two questions. Just because I'm from the Gay Capital of the UK doesn't mean I can be in a relationship with all the guys I fancy," I say. "Why did you try to kiss me earlier?"

"I-I... uh... I wasn't thinking. How's your floor plan?"

"I finished it by midnight. It looks great. Did you honestly think you'll get to kiss me after today?"

"Geez. It was a stupid mistake, okay? Just forget it. Shit, swap those."

"All right then. What would you be if you didn't consider Engineering?"

"I'd probably be a lawyer and save people's lives. I can't write to save my life though. You?"

"I dunno," I say. "I can't imagine being anything other than an architect. I want to build things that last. I mean it's so hard to come by with permanence these days – social status, relationships, our lives. At least I'll leave a mark and that's my gift to the world."

"That's deep. You're gonna make it. You're gonna be great."

He doesn't notice we broke the rule, or he just doesn't care.

"You think so?"

"Yeah!" He has too much excitement at such an ungodly hour.

"Sometimes I get excited when I think about it, but then I remember I don't have a future."

"Yes, you do. What makes you think that?"

"I dunno. I just think about death a lot. Wait a second, why is this becoming about me?"

"Is that what your meds are for?"

Wrong move. Why did I even call him in the first place?

"It's okay. You can tell me about it. You can tell me anything."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because we're friends and you can trust me?"

I don't want to talk about it and I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to hear it either. Because the truth is, no one does. No one wants to know how it spreads within your system, how it robs you of hope and happiness. They don't want to hear how it leaves you to the dark, inescapable corners of your mind with the only goal of ending your existence.

"How's study group with Gilbert?"

We push through with other topics and continue talking for another ten minutes or so. I catch myself critiquing this film we saw last Friday and I'm afraid I'm spilling my heart out.

"Right," I say. "Right. Right, I need to stop saying 'right', don't I?"

Silence falls and I hear faint snoring at the other end. I may be talking to myself.

"Alfred?"

He doesn't answer. I end the call and message him.

_Good night, loser._

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE: <strong>

Hey, guys. I'm sorry if I haven't updated in weeks. Things were a little rough for me lately and suddenly writing just didn't appeal to me as much as it used to. But I'm trying to fix that and here we are. I hope you liked it.


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